


you are what matters

by galaxyroadtrips



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (not gory but tagging just in case), 5+1 Things, Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Gen, Peter Parker Stressing Out Tony Stark, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyroadtrips/pseuds/galaxyroadtrips
Summary: Tony shoves his hands in his pockets, mustering a quick grin at the elderly woman who’s looking at him with befuddled amusement from across the aisle. That’s fair, Tony has to admit. He’s talking to his own glasses in the middle of a Stop & Shop.“Alright,” he mutters, turning back to face the freezer door in what he’s sure is a terrible attempt at looking casual. “So it’s just gone? You tracking it? Which car is it?”“Two cars,” Friday corrects him. “The silver R8 and the red Roadster. Unknown bioscan for the first driver, but the Roadster was Peter Parker. He seemed to be in pursuit.”“Son of a bitch.” Tony drops his shopping basket next to the freezer and starts to sprint towards the exit.-----------------Five times Peter borrows something and Tony doesn’t get it back, and one time Tony gets back much more than he ever imagined he would.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 18
Kudos: 133





	1. in one piece

Tony’s in the frozen foods aisle, propping open a freezer door with his shoulder and trying to decide between jumbo boxes of Klondike bars and Chipwiches when he feels his watch buzz on his wrist.

“ _Boss, there’s a problem at the compound,_ ” Friday says, her voice cutting through the Bon Jovi coming from the overhead speakers. Tony sighs and, pushing both boxes back onto the shelf, pulls his glasses out of his jacket pocket and shoves them over the bridge of his nose.

“Is this a ‘needs-immediate-attention’ problem?” he asks, tapping the frame with two fingers. “Or is this a ‘Happy-can’t-figure-out-the-WiFi’ problem?”

" _I think someone’s stealing your car._ ”

“You _think?_ ” Letting the freezer door slam closed, Tony takes a step back and bends down to grab his shopping basket by the handles. “How’s that a ‘think’ situation? You got a visual?”

“ _No, I don’t_ ,” she says. “ _Both the internal and external garage cameras are inoperative. If I had a visual I’d show it to you._ ”

She sounds miffed that he’d even asked. Tony shoves his hands in his pockets, mustering a quick grin at the elderly woman who’s looking at him with befuddled amusement from across the aisle. That’s fair, Tony has to admit. He’s talking to his own glasses in the middle of a Stop & Shop.

“Alright,” he mutters, turning back to face the freezer door in what he’s sure is a terrible attempt at looking casual. “So it’s just gone? You tracking it? Which car is it?”

“ _Two cars_ ,” Friday corrects him. “ _The silver R8 and the red Roadster. Unknown bioscan for the first driver, but the Roadster was Peter Parker. He seemed to be in pursuit._ ”

“Son of a bitch.” Tony drops his shopping basket next to the freezer and starts to sprint towards the exit.

It’s a good thing he’s paranoid and he brings a suit no matter where he’s going, even if it’s just down the road to the grocery store to pick up dessert. Dessert for tonight, because it’s Peter’s first weekend up at the compound. Peter, who’s seemed so goddamn nervous ever since Happy dropped him at the front entrance, like he thinks he’s got something to prove, and Tony’s been racking his brain for ways to just get the kid to relax already, because this is supposed to be fun. Peter, who Tony had left in the workshop, taking a break from suit modifications to plug away at a photography project on the new photoshop software Tony had let him download (“just get the premium, kid, it’s not like I’m strapped for cash,” Tony had thrown over his shoulder on his way out).

Peter who, according to his own account of the Vulture incident, has been on the road exactly once, and nearly flipped the goddamn car.

The whole parking lot turns to stare as Tony heaves his collapsible briefcase out of the backseat and the suit assembles itself at the press of a button. “Patch me into both trackers,” he says as his mask slams closed and he takes off into the mid-afternoon sky.

Friday pulls up a map on his HUD, and two tracking dots flicker onto the landscape, racing down a two-lane highway that’s, mercifully, only a couple minutes out from Tony’s location. “Call Peter,” he snaps.

“ _His phone’s at the compound, Boss._ ”

“Suit comm, then.”

The front tracking dot veers off the road, and a split second later, Peter’s tracker follows it. “ _He’s not wearing it._ ”

Tony’s stomach feels like it’s plummeting all the way back down to Earth. “Wonderful.”

All he can do is push the suit to full throttle, pulse picking up as he rockets across the sky. The tracking dots start to swerve, like the cars are steering around obstacles, and Tony mentally pleads with any and every higher power to keep the kid safe, just a minute more, he’s almost there, he’s closing in -

And then both dots come to a sudden halt.

Tony’s blood runs cold. “Friday?”

“ _They seem to be stopped._ _I’m losing connection with Peter’s car_ ,” she says.

His heartbeat is about to shatter through his ribs. “More power,” he bites out. “Cut what you have to. Just thrusters.”

“ _Got it_.”

He starts to descend, grass and trees blurring below him, dread scraping at the back of his brain. Finally, on the horizon, he spots two metallic specks, one silver and one red.

Closer, a shaky breath, and then the air is knocked from his lungs, because the red one is slammed up against a tree.

The landing he makes is one of the clumsiest he’s ever done. Adrenaline pumps through him as he sprints to the wreckage, to the driver’s side door. The window is open, and hanging out of it is an arm, webshooter clipped over a blue hoodie sleeve, and attached to the arm is Peter, slumped over the steering wheel airbag.

“Parker!” Tony bellows, yanking the door open so hard that it flies off its hinges with the extra force of the suit gauntlet.

There’s a split second where nothing moves, and Peter sits motionless with his face pillowed in the bag, and Tony goes dizzy, bracing his forearm against the empty doorframe, because it looks like Peter is -

Then the kid’s shoulders shift. He lifts his head and blinks twice, slow and sluggish, looking out the dashboard, and his whole face pales. “Oh my God.”

“Kid.” Without thinking, Tony reaches out a hand and turns Peter’s face towards him. There’s a thin line of blood seeping from Peter’s forehead. Fingers shaking, Tony pushes Peter’s hair back where the gash is. “Friday?”

“ _No signs of concussion or serious injury_ ,” Friday replies.

Tony moves his hand to Peter’s shoulder. It feels like it’s shaking, although he’s not sure if that’s all Peter or if some of it is him. He takes in the blood, the blown-wide eyes – the pupils, he’s gotta check the pupils, isn’t that what people do, when their kids hit their heads – make sure Peter isn’t about to pass out or worse, because the car is fucking totaled and all he can see is Peter in the driver’s seat, glass breaking, metal buckling, the kid pitching forward into the dashboard – 

“Oh, wait.” Peter’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “I - did I get him?”

He’s craning his neck to the side, peering out the window, and Tony turns to look too. Clutched in Peter’s fist is a silvery strand of webbing, pulled tight and shaking like a stretched rubber band.

“I got him,” Peter whispers, and sure enough, on the other end of the web is Tony’s silver Audi, the rear bumper swathed in the material. Tony realizes that the tires are spinning in place, kicking up chunks of grass as the other driver tries to break free by flooring it, but the web holds fast. The kid’s barely breaking a sweat, holding on with one hand like he’s flying a fucking kite. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, holy shit,” Tony snaps. The tremble in his fingers has apparently migrated to his voice. He clears his throat, and suddenly the Audi’s tires stop spinning, and the door opens. And as if everything wasn’t already enough for one day, the person who steps out is wearing, of all things, a plastic Boba Fett mask.

In five quick strides, Tony’s caught the guy just as he tries to make a break for it into the woods. Whoever it is has not even two seconds to whisper a hushed, almost reverent “Fuck,” before Tony’s slugged him across the jaw, just barely mustering the restraint to do it with his bare fist rather than the suit gauntlet.

The guy drops, and Tony leaves him facedown in the grass, stalking back over to his ruined red Roadster, where Peter’s sitting in the driver’s seat, now looking distinctly ashen.

Tony steps out of the suit and, because his hands are still shaking, folds his arms across his chest. “What in God’s name were you trying to do?”

Peter visibly gulps. “Mr. Stark.” His eyes are huge. “I am so, so sorry.”

The blood in Peter’s hairline is starting to drip, slow and thick, down the side of his face. Tony’s heart clenches. “You’re goddamn lucky I didn’t have to scrape you off that tree,” he bites out, voice brittle.

Peter’s jaw shifts, and he glances to the side. The whole thing feels far too much like the Staten Island Ferry fiasco, and Tony heaves a sigh, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. Wordlessly, he leans into the car and braces an arm around Peter’s shoulders, helping the kid climb out of the empty door frame, and steadies him as he stands upright.

“You dizzy?” Wondering absently if the kid’s super-hearing can pick up on his slamming heartbeat, he glances at the back of Peter’s head and feels a wash of relief when he sees it’s free of blood. “Nauseous? Anything feel broken?”

Peter shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He looks behind him, taking in the crumpled wreckage of Tony’s car, and lifts a hand to his forehead. “Oh my God.”

The kid sounds just as sick as Tony feels. “Alright,” Tony mutters, scraping together what’s left of his sanity and willing it to last long enough to take care of all this, at least until he can lock himself in his workshop and maybe scream into one of the worn-out couch cushions. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. We’re gonna web him up here,” - he points to Boba Fett - “call the cops, leave a note. We’re gonna go back to the compound and we’re gonna have a chat.”

The car itself is frankly the least of Tony’s worries, so they end up dousing it in fire extinguisher foam just to be safe, calling a tow crew to come from the compound, and leaving it where it is while they drive home together in the stolen Audi. Peter’s uncharacteristically, unnervingly silent for the whole ride, picking at a hole in the knee of his jeans, and Tony keeps glancing over at him just to make sure he hasn’t passed out or anything. It’s only a ten-minute ride back, but by the time they roll into the garage, Tony’s hands are aching from gripping the steering wheel so hard.

The first thing he does is usher Peter down to MedBay and spend twenty minutes pacing back and forth while Helen checks him out. As she works, Tony half-listens to the harried explanation Happy stops by to give - some rogue employee with enough access codes and technical know-how had knocked the cameras out for just enough time to hotwire Tony’s car, which the guy had apparently wanted to sell, and make a break for it. Under any other circumstances, Tony might even be a little impressed. 

As it is, though, he’s just reliving the feeling of his fist making contact with the guy’s face, and he’s seething with satisfaction at the memory, because that asshole’s the reason Peter’s sitting here in MedBay. Even after Helen gives him the all-clear, dresses the gash on Peter’s forehead and sends them on their way with orders for Peter to take it easy for the rest of the weekend, Tony still feels like his blood pressure is going through the roof.

Peter doesn’t speak until they’re both sitting down at the counter, cartons of cold leftover Thai sitting between them, because Tony knows, logically, that they both have to eat, but frankly he’s never been less hungry in his life and it seems like Peter’s feeling the same way. 

The kid takes a deep breath and swivels on his barstool chair to face Tony. “Mr. Stark, I, uh.” He sighs. “I know you’re pissed.”

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. Honestly, he’d say that “pissed”, while not untrue, is definitely taking a backseat to “relieved” - a raw, shaky, unbalancing relief that the kid’s still in one piece. Right now, though, there’s nothing he wants to do less than try and dissect the sweeping, unidentifiable emotional state this whole situation has plunged him into. “Why, on God’s green earth,” he starts, making a conscious effort to unclench his jaw, “did you think that was a good idea?”

Peter’s expression is pure deer in the headlights. “I just - I was near the garage and I got a security alert from Friday, she said the cameras were down, so I ran over and Boba Fett was flooring it outta there in your car and like, I couldn’t swing after him, there’s no buildings or anything, so I, uh, there were these keys on the workbench...”

“Kid, you don’t even have a learner’s permit.” Tony runs a hand down the side of his face. “The Andretti act's gotta stop.”

“Andretti?”

“Never mind. Case in point, this ill-fated joyride. How exactly did you end up wrapped around a tree?”

“Well, uh.” Peter visibly swallows. “I thought I was close enough to get him with my webs so I…kinda leaned out the window and tried to…” He mimes a webshooter motion. “I was, like, half out of the car and I wasn’t looking straight ahead and I guess I just...didn’t see.”

“Didn’t see,” Tony repeats. He really isn’t trying to sound harsh, but the words come out sharp-edged anyway, because the image of Peter slumped over the wheel is etching itself behind his eyes again. 

Peter winces. “I, um.” He looks down at his hands. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Just promise me it won’t happen again.”

“I swear,” Peter says, nodding vigorously. Tony notices he’s twisting the cuff of one of his sleeves around his fingers. “I feel really bad, and, I mean, I don’t really know how insurance works but if it’s gonna cost you anything then I - I’ll give you what I -”

“Wait,” Tony cuts in, holding up a hand. “Pause.”

Peter slams his mouth shut.

“You think I’m mad about the _car_ ,” Tony enunciates, as slowly and clearly as he can, his entire train of thought pulling to a stop, because apparently, somewhere in here, he’s completely fucked up this conversation.

Peter blinks. “Well, yeah. I - I totaled it.”

In the back of Tony’s brain, the memory of Howard’s voice echoes like a trapped ghost. In that moment, it sounds so much like his own that a shiver runs up his spine.

“Kid.” Tony looks Peter dead in the eye. “I don’t _care_ about the car.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “You – you don’t…”

“Listen,” Tony says, and he finds himself reaching out to give Peter’s shoulder a little shake. He’s doing his best to adopt a tone that’s firm but caring - a sort of dad voice, it hits him suddenly. Nothing like his own father’s. “You are what matters. Not the car. Something like that happens again, you use common sense. Know your limits. Don’t get yourself killed over a hunk of metal.”

“But I didn’t get myself-”

“Nuh-uh.” Tony holds up a finger, and Peter stops talking. “I have eighteen cars, kid. I only have one you.”

It’s the first time he’s really put that truth into words, but as Peter blinks back at him, Tony’s struck by the fact that somewhere along the line, Peter’s become a part of his life that he can’t fathom losing.

“Okay,” Peter stammers, seemingly taken aback. He looks like he doesn’t really know what to do with himself, and Tony realizes that he’s got a fine line to walk here, between making sure this won’t happen again and being the supportive mentor he’s still trying to prove to himself he’s capable of being. 

“Alright,” he sighs. “You did save the Audi. I gotta give you credit.” He sniffs. “I like that one better anyway.”

Peter beams.

“Just don’t do it again,” Tony adds, seriously doubting that’ll do any good whatsoever. “No more NASCAR. Stick to the spider stuff. Pun not intended.” 

That makes Peter laugh, and the last of the tension fades.

Really, Tony knows better than to think this’ll be the last time Peter hurls himself into danger unnecessarily, and he also knows better than to think any exhortation of his will ever do the trick in that regard. But that won’t ever stop him from trying.


	2. freefall

It’s all fun and games until Tony finds out that the kid doesn’t have his parachute installed.

He’s only alerted to this fact after a solid couple hours of patrolling with Peter, when the two of them are taking a pizza break on the top of the Queensboro Bridge. Tony’s in the middle of his first and only slice, because the kid’s already scarfed down the rest of the pie, and is following up on it by doing flips between the two high turrets above Tony’s head, gliding in dizzying acrobatics under the fiery evening sky.

“Alright, watch this,” he shouts down to Tony, like he’s about to ride a bicycle with no hands. Holding both arms out to the side, he drops into a crouch on the top of one spire.

Tony leans back against the guardrail around the tower platform, the Iron Man suit standing sentry beside him as he takes a bite of his pepperoni and mushroom. “You know, if you lose your lunch, I’m not holding your hair back,” he calls around his mouthful.

“I’m not gonna barf,” Peter laughs, bouncing in place like a loaded spring, and then launches into a backflip, slinging a web behind him as he somersaults in midair. It catches on the opposite spire, and he swings in a wide half-circle out from the tower and back again to stick on the top.

He turns to look for Tony’s reaction, hopeful expectation written all over the wideness of his mask’s responsive eyes. Tony gives him a thumbs-up. “Nice.”

Motion sickness-inducing stunts aside, he’s glad the kid is having fun. The weeks following the stolen car incident had been...awkward. Tony had never thought the kid would be the type to walk on eggshells around anybody, but Peter had seemed a hell of a lot more stiff and respectful to an unnerving degree, as if even their tentative sort of bonding moment hadn’t been enough to make him realize Tony genuinely wasn’t pissed about the car itself. 

To use one of Peter’s favorite phrases, it had sucked. Tony hadn’t realized how much he’d started to enjoy the easy rapport they’d been working towards, the lighthearted snark that had, more and more, been breaking like sun through the clouds of the kid’s hero-worship. So, in an attempt to salvage that, he’d offered to patrol with Peter. It only took a half-hour of swinging and soaring through Queens and a tentative quip from Peter (“y’know, this is, like, reverse ‘take your kid to work day’”), which made Tony laugh out loud, for the awkwardness to start fading away.

Really, Tony muses as he watches Peter line up on the tower for another high-flying stunt, he has no idea why it’s taken him this long to suggest this.

“You know what’d be cool?” he shouts up to Peter, swallowing his last bite of pizza and folding up the box. “The web wings on the turn.”

The suggestion makes Peter bounce in place with excitement. “Whoa. That’d be awesome.”

“Uh-huh. If you angle it right you’ll get great air.” Tony folds his arms and tilts his head to the side, surveying the gap between the turrets. “But you don’t want the chute to deploy on your way back down. You’ll have to make it gradual so the fall detection doesn’t - ” 

Over Peter’s suit loudspeaker, Karen’s voice interrupts him. “ _He doesn’t have his parachute._ ”

Tony blinks. “You’re shitting me.”

“Aw, come on, Karen,” Peter groans from his perch. “Why’d you tell him?”

“ _He’s right, it affects the glider calculations,”_ Karen chirps, with her trademark casual cheer. “ _If your parachute won’t deploy, you could descend at a steeper angle -”_

“You mean to tell me,” Tony cuts in, feeling like in a few minutes he’ll need either a Tylenol or a defibrillator, “I’ve been encouraging all... _this_.” He throws a hand out towards Peter, who at least has the decency to start climbing, slowly, down from the top of the turret, which Tony is suddenly, terrifyingly aware is upwards of three hundred feet from the river underneath it. “And the whole time, there’s been a considerable chance of you going splat on the water?”

“Mr. Stark, it’s fine,” Peter offers as a feeble sort of excuse, crouching on a beam just above Tony’s head. “I'll put it back later, I just kinda forgot, but I mean, I didn’t have it in DC either, and that was, like, a lot higher than this -”

“Oh, that’s real comforting.”

“I’m good, I swear,” Peter half-laughs, like he’s hoping levity will get him out of this. He stands up on the beam, balancing with his arms out to both sides. “I’m sticky.”

Tony folds his arms. Logically, he’s aware of this. The kid’s got webs and a super suit. Even without a parachute, he can catch himself if he falls. And it’s not like he doesn’t trust Peter’s ability; he’s been seriously impressed by it, especially after this patrol. Peter’s strong, quick on his feet, whip-smart and clear-headed in a fight. He can take care of himself.

Somehow, that fact isn’t making this situation any less anxiety-inducing.

“Look,” Peter’s saying, because it’s his M.O. to be a little shit about everything, especially things that he knows stress Tony out. “I can flip over the edge and catch myself. Watch.”

“You don’t have to -”

Too late. The kid’s disappeared over the side of the tower platform, and it doesn’t matter that Tony’s just spent the last two hours watching him web-sling on skyscrapers from one side of Queens to the other, he finds himself jumping to his feet and doing a ridiculous jog over to the side where Peter disappeared.

“Alright,” he says, kneeling down and peering over the edge. “you done raising my blood pressure?”

He trails off of the last word. Below him, Peter hangs motionless from a string of web stuck to the side of the bridge tower, facing across the river. For a split second, Tony’s struck by the irrational fear that he’s smashed into the framework and knocked himself out, or something, but then Peter pushes away from the tower with his feet, the web going tight as he angles towards the setting sun.

“Whoa,” Peter breathes, pointing across the water with one hand. “Look.”

Tony looks. It’s just the skyline, with the evening light bleeding from behind the buildings. “What?”

“It’s just - the view,” Peter says, voice breathy with awe. “Hold on. I gotta get a picture.”

Tony tilts his head to the side, folding his arms as Peter rummages for his phone in the pocket of his suit. Honestly, he wouldn’t say it’s anything to write home about. Just a typical New York sunset; nothing earth-shattering. But you wouldn’t know it from looking at the kid, watching him angle to the right and left, holding his phone out in front of him and messing with the zoom like everything has to be perfect.

Maybe Tony’s just getting old and jaded. Well. More jaded than he used to be. He does feel a long way from his early days of being Iron Man, swooping through the California stars and centering the moon in his HUD. He hopes with all his heart that it doesn’t happen to Peter, that slow sputtering-out of energy and hope. Peter loves being Spider-Man. He lives and breathes New York, its streets and skies, the responsibility he feels for its people. It’s no wonder that he sees something picture-worthy in every corner.

“Aw, come on,” Peter groans, interrupting Tony’s train of thought. He presses down on the phone’s power button, and on the screen Tony can see a battery icon blinking on and off.

Well. Can’t have that.

With a tap of his watch, Tony calls the suit and lets it fold into place around him. He steps off the edge of the platform, bootjets igniting in midair, and descends to hover by Peter’s side. “Dead?”

Peter sighs. “Yup.” He slides it in his suit pocket. “Sucks.”

Still hovering in midair, Tony lets his suit fold half-open like he’s about to step out, and carefully pulls one arm free to reach for his own phone in the pocket of his jeans.

“Whoa, hey,” Peter yelps, stretching out an arm towards Tony. “Don’t fall.”

“That’s called tasting your own medicine,” Tony retorts, raising an eyebrow as he holds out his phone to Peter. “Use mine.”

“Oh.” The suit closes around Tony again as Peter takes the phone. “You don’t mind?”

“‘Course not. Go nuts.”

“Cool,” Peter chirps, opening the camera. “Wow. This is great.”

Tony hovers a little closer to the side of the tower so he can see the screen as Peter angles the shot. “It’s top of the line. But I don’t know the first thing about photography.”

“It’s not hard,” Peter mutters, only half-focused on what he’s saying as he narrows his eyes at the screen. “It’s cool. There’s, like, a science to it.” He snaps a picture and hums approvingly, studying it for a few seconds before switching back to the camera. “Like, this is called ‘golden hour.’ This time of day. The light’s softer, ‘cause the sun’s setting. So there’s less contrast.”

“Makes sense.”

“And there’s this thing called rule of thirds.” Peter leans towards him and shoves the phone in front of Tony’s face. He’s starting to ramble in the animated way he usually reserves for Spider-Man-related topics. “That’s what the grid’s for. You got nine boxes, so you put stuff along the lines and intersection points, and it makes it look really good. Like…”

He snaps another photo and holds the screen between the two of them so they can both see it. “Awesome,” he says as he takes it in.

It does look really good. It looks professional. Peter’s taken what at first glance was a dime-a-dozen New York evening and turned it into something special. “Wow, kid. Looks fantastic.”

Peter lights up at just those few words. “Hey, thanks,” he chirps, and Tony can tell by his voice that he’s grinning under the mask. The kid leans forward again, holding the phone out once more and stretching further, further along his web, away from the side of the tower, until he’s barely clinging onto the very end of it, and Tony’s heartbeat is starting to quicken. “If I could just…get a little further...”

He pushes off the side of the tower with his feet, snapping another photo as he swings forward, and then the end of the web slips out of his hand.

“Kid!” Tony gasps, and swoops downward as Peter tumbles into freefall.

It feels like time freezes, in that moment. Nothing but sheer panic as his vision tunnels. Heart in his throat, electric terror in his blood. Peter’s suit, bright red against the darkness of the river. The metallic shine of Tony’s own suit gauntlet, reaching towards Peter, as they both plummet.

In reality, it’s barely a second before Tony catches Peter and stops to hover in midair. Pulse slamming with adrenaline, he tightens his arms around Peter’s shoulders and forces a heavy exhale, and then realizes Peter’s eyes are fixed on something below them.

“Shit,” the kid says.

Still breathing hard, Tony follows Peter’s gaze and sees a small, rectangular object tumbling towards the guardrail on the side of the bridge highway.

“ _Shit_ ,” the kid breathes again, and shoots a web after it.

“It’s fine,” Tony says, watching the phone fall. Peter swears under his breath as the web keeps missing it. “It’s shatterproof. Heavy-duty.”

The phone hits the guardrail, bounces over the side of the bridge, and plunges towards the river.

“No,” Peter groans. “No way.”

He shoots a web to stick on the side of the tower, swings back onto the framework, and starts to scramble down to the bridge walkway. Tony follows at a slow hover, calling after him. “Kid. Kid, hey.”

“Come on.” Peter makes a stumbling landing on the pavement and bends over the guardrail to look down at the water. “Come on. Not fair.”

“Pete.” Maybe it’s residual hysteria from the kid nearly plummeting to his death, or maybe it’s just that Peter looks so damn funny leaning on the railing like he’s about to barf over the side, but Tony’s struggling to swallow back laughter as he lands. “Honestly, it’s fine.”

“It’s not.” Peter slaps a palm against his forehead and then half-turns to look at Tony over his shoulder, pointing towards the river. “Do you want me to -”

“Take a swim?” Tony folds his arms. “Not a chance. Once was enough.”

Peter sighs and digs the heels of his hands into the eyes on his mask. “Mr. Stark, I’m really sorry.”

Tony doesn’t bother to stifle his laughter anymore as he steps forward to clap Peter on the back. “Trust me, it’s okay.”

“It’s not. I - I threw your phone in the _river_ -”

“You did not. You dropped it in the river. There was no throwing involved.”

Peter lets out a huff of frustration. “That’s somehow better?”

“Doesn’t matter either way.” Tony shrugs. “Lest we forget, it’s my phone, in the sense that I make the phones. I mean, I don’t personally assemble them. I just design them. Still. New phone whenever I need it.” He’s rambling in the hopes that it’ll make Peter feel better, make him realize Tony isn’t mad. The last thing the poor kid needs is a repeat of his car crash guilt complex. “I’m just glad you didn’t fall with it.”

“But all your stuff,” Peter interjects, true to his frustrating, trademark disregard for his own personal safety. “Your photos, your - your - whatever you use it for…”

Tony sniffs and folds his arms. “I have backups. Come on. Give me some credit here.”

At last, Peter seems to relax a little. “Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh,’” Tony snarks. “Would you stop blaming yourself? It’s giving me heartburn.”

“I feel like everything gives you heartburn.”

“I will not dispute that.” Tony steps out of his suit, flicking his wrist to tap his watch. A holoprojection springs into the space between them. “I probably have your photos, even. Hold on.”

He scrolls through subfolders until he finds them, and pulls up the most recent one. The image sparkles into view between them, edged with pale blue light. Peter breathes a sigh of relief, folding his arms as he studies the hologram. “Okay. That - that’s good.”

“Good,” Tony echoes. It really is a nice shot. 

“You know what?” he adds after a moment, closing the holoscreen. “On the subject of photos.” He steps closer to Peter, holding out his arm so the watch is facing both of them. “This has a camera. Let’s commemorate the moment.”

Peter groans. “Let’s not.”

Tony lines up the watch so they’re both in view. “I thought visual documentation was your thing.”

“I don’t wanna document chucking your phone in the river.”

There’s a smile in his voice, though, and he lets Tony snap the selfie. “Trust me, kid, you’ll look back and laugh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not super confident about this one, lmao. but thanks for reading!! hope everyone's safe and healthy :) see y'all in the next chapter!


	3. no superpowers needed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Blood/heavy bleeding for this chapter - nothing too graphic or detailed, and not a main character, but I thought I would warn for it just in case.

To Tony’s silent mortification, the first words that fly out of his mouth as he watches Peter step onto the sidewalk are “You’re not dressed warm enough.”

Pulling the front door solidly shut behind him, Peter has the nerve to actually roll his eyes, even though he’s smiling as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his light winter coat. “‘Kay, Mom.”

“I mean it,” Tony presses, still chagrined that this is what his brain’s decided he’s going to be vocally concerned about, but Peter will no doubt tease him for it all afternoon anyway, so it's too late to drop it now. “You’re gonna freeze. I don’t wanna listen to you complain all the way to Manhattan.”

“I’m not. I’m not gonna complain, it’s fine.” Peter bounces down the steps, adjusting his camera bag over his shoulder. As he hits the sidewalk, a loose knot on one of his Converse comes untied.

“Don’t trip,” Tony says, pointing to it.

“Oh my God.”

“I’ll ignore that.” Tony sniffs as Peter heaves an exaggerated sigh and crouches to re-tie the knot. “You need a scarf. Some gloves. Can’t wall-crawl if you get frostbite and your fingers fall off.”

“My fingers - it’s, like, thirty-five degrees out,” Peter laughs.

When he straightens up, Tony jostles him in the shoulder. “Fine. Clearly you don’t need me. Or my sage advice.”

Peter nudges him right back. “It’s not sage. You’re just old and cold all the time.”

Tony adjusts his own scarf around his neck as he and Peter set off down the road, the low winter sun shining in their eyes. “The last one’s fair.”

The day is one of clear blue sky and puffs of breath clouding in front of their faces, melting ice glittering on the side of the road and along the fences and handrails they pass as they meander towards the subway station. It isn’t really that cold out, nowhere near fingers-falling-off territory, but they’re going to be out for a while, taking pictures in Central Park for Peter’s photography project.

He’s still a little mystified as to why Peter wants him along for this. Their patrolling has turned into a regular thing, sure, but aside from that and weekends at the compound, they haven’t really spent time together for the sake of it. When the kid called to say he needed to skip patrol this afternoon to work on the project, Tony was all set to reply with an approving comment on Peter’s prioritization of schoolwork and to smother his mild disappointment by stopping for donuts on the drive back upstate. He hadn’t at all expected for Peter to follow up with an awkward but hopeful _I mean, unless you wanna come along…?_

So here he is, tagging along with Peter’s school project expedition, and making a complete and total helicopter mentor of himself.

It’s not like Tony’s _worried_ about the kid being cold, or anything. It’s not like the thought bothers him. He just doesn’t want to have to listen to complaining once Peter realizes his thin jacket isn’t enough to keep him warm. That’s all.

Peter seems fine all the way to the subway station and on the ride to Manhattan. It’s only once they reach the top of the steps to the street level, blinking in the light, that the kid shivers and zips his coat all the way up to his neck.

“Oh, here we go,” Tony snarks, folding his arms as they step out of the way of people on the sidewalk.

“I’m fine,” Peter protests, throwing his hands out to either side. “I just like it zipped up.”

“Tell you what, I’ll hold off on ‘I told you so’ till you cave.”

“I’m not gonna cave,” Peter says, shoving his hands in his pockets, but Tony can tell his teeth are chattering.

They walk, and Peter shivers. A gusty blast of wind hits them square in the face as they cross a busy intersection, and Tony turns to see Peter shut his eyes against the force of it, shoulders hunching as he braces himself.

The kid looks miserable. Tony sighs and, as he steps onto the curb, pulls his scarf off.

“Here.” He bunches it up and tosses it to Peter. “Jesus. I’m cold just looking at you.”

Eyes widening, Peter’s hands fly up to catch it on reflex. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to argue, glancing between Tony and the fringe on the ends of the plaid fabric. Then he shivers again and loops the scarf around his neck, letting it hang with one end shorter than the other. “Hey, thanks.”

As if it’s suddenly off-balance, the defensive part of Tony’s brain assembles a snarky comeback, something about proven points and eaten words, but what comes out of his mouth is much softer, a simple, easy “Sure, kid,” that makes his brows furrow in surprise at how unguarded it is.

Huh.

He muses on it as they cross into Central Park, stopping to let Peter pull his camera out of its bag and hang the strap over his neck atop Tony’s scarf. “Okay,” the kid says, taking off the lens cap. “I’m looking for, like...winter stuff.”

“Winter stuff,” Tony echoes, feeling himself smile.

“You know,” Peter says, grinning back as he holds down the camera power button. “Snow. Ice. Trees without leaves.” He adjusts Tony’s scarf around the camera strap. “We have to take photos of the same place in different seasons. I was here in the fall, and I’ll come back in the spring. This is for winter.”

“Makes sense.” Tony claps his hands together. “Winter stuff.”

They wander through the park until the sun starts to bleed low through the trees. Every so often, one of them will notice an ice-coated bush, or a nice shot of bare tree branches against the sky, or a bright red cardinal perched on a bench, and they’ll both stop, Peter steadying his camera and Tony trying to keep as still as possible behind him, until he’s got the picture and they both relax to take a look.

By the time they make it to Bethesda Terrace, Peter’s got at least fifteen photos. He scrolls through them as they climb the steps, and Tony keeps a pace or two ahead, stopping to take in the view once he reaches the top.

Across the terrace is a stone pillar, a monument with words engraved on the side. Tony knows what it’s for. The day of its dedication had been cold like this one, sunny like this one, similar enough that all at once he’s thrown back into the memory of it, of shaking the mayor’s hand under the bright blue sky, the sky that he still hadn’t been able to look up at without envisioning an inky, swirling void torn in the middle of it.

Peter stops next to Tony, glancing over at him before continuing towards the monument.

_THE BATTLE OF NEW YORK_

_MAY 4, 2012_

_FOR THOSE WHO LOST THEIR LIVES_

_FOR THOSE WHO STOOD AND FOUGHT_

_MAY THEIR STORIES BE TOLD TO THE AGES_

“Still feels like yesterday,” Tony muses as they both stand in front of it.

“Same,” Peter blurts, and then seems to shrink into Tony’s scarf like he’s embarrassed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I mean. It’s different for you, ‘cause you - you were actually -”

“Wait,” Tony interjects, feeling a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the weather. “You were here for that.” It’s a statement, not a question, because of _course_ Peter was here for that. The kid’s mentioned before that he’s lived in New York his whole life. For some reason, though, it’s never really sunk in that Peter experienced the whole mess firsthand. “Were you in Queens? Don’t tell me you were in -”

“Midtown, yeah,” Peter says, nodding, with a wry half-smile. “I would’ve been in Queens, except - I was actually at Midtown Tech that day. I mean - I was in elementary school, I wasn’t like, going there, but I did the science fair that year, and the finalists got to go to Midtown Tech for the citywide fair.”

“Jesus Christ,” Tony mutters, running a hand through his hair. “The one day.”

“I mean, we were all fine,” Peter’s quick to add, waving one hand in a gesture entirely too dismissive, in Tony’s opinion, for a discussion about surviving an alien invasion. “They stuck us in the basement labs, and we, like, hid under tables and stuff, and May and Ben were there too, and we didn’t get hit or anything.” A grin spreads over his face. “Ben had his phone, and he was looking at the news, and I saw this picture of you and it was so cool. I was like, ‘oh my God, the suit looks different, it’s gotta be new,’ and after that I was actually more, like, excited than scared.”

The mix of fondness and terror that Peter’s recollection stirs in Tony’s chest is something he’s felt increasingly often in the months - has it really been over half a year? - since he met the kid. It’s a protectiveness that he’s started to recognize in the eyes of parents whose children he’s rescued as Iron Man. It’s unbalancing. He finds he doesn’t know what to say, exactly.

Peter keeps talking before he can think of something. “Ben made me stop watching when the nuke was coming in, I guess he didn’t want me to know, but I heard people saying that you saved the city. And I was sorta wishing you’d like - I don’t know, come in and give us the all-clear or something, and I could ask you how the suit worked, and, like, show you my science fair project and - ah, now it’s embarrassing,” Peter laughs, scratching the back of his head. “I just - I wanted to save people too. Like you. You were so awesome.”

“Oh, I _was?"_ Tony sniffs, grateful for the foothold this gives him, because really, he has no idea how to deal with the way he’s melting inside. “Past tense? I’m no longer awesome?”

Peter’s grin widens. “Come on, you know what I mean.”

Tony gives him a joking punch in the shoulder. “Good to know I’m old news to you.”

“You’re not old news,” Peter laughs, shoving him back. “You’re just regular old -”

A startled cry echoes across the terrace.

Peter turns a split second before Tony does, and bolts forward with a yelp of “Oh my God” as Tony registers what’s happening. A young woman is sprawled on the staircase, facedown against the steps like she tumbled from the top, backpack hanging off her shoulders and a set of skis broken free from their attachment on her bag, one of them lying beside her, one sticking out from under her arm.

Tony sprints forward and reaches the woman as Peter crouches down by her side, resting a hand on her shoulder. Around them, a small crowd of worried onlookers starts to gather. “Ma’am?” Peter asks, craning his neck to try and get a glimpse of her face. “Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

The woman groans and pushes herself off of the step on one elbow, her hair hanging in her eyes. “I - I don’t…” she murmurs, as she tries to sit up with Peter steadying her, and then she brings her other arm up in front of her face.

It’s soaked with dark red blood.

“Okay,” Peter says, pulling Tony’s scarf off his neck. “You’re gonna be okay.” He reaches out and takes her arm, pressing the scarf against the bleeding with his other hand. “Mr. Stark, can you call -”

“911, yeah,” Tony finishes, already pulling out his phone.

“Oh my God,” the woman breathes, shaking and staring at her arm while Tony dials. “Oh my God. My ski - I think it - did it cut - did I fall on it? I don’t - I don’t remember -”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Peter reassures her. “We’re calling an ambulance. They’re gonna fix you up.”

“ _Nine-one-one operator, what is your emergency?_ ”

“I need EMS. I have a woman who’s bleeding heavily.” As he speaks, Tony watches Peter scoot closer to her, still pressing the scarf tight against her arm.

“ _Okay. What’s your address?_ ” the operator asks.

Tony moves to sit next to the woman on the steps. Hopefully that’ll shield her from the stares they’re attracting. “Central Park, Bethesda Terrace.” He taps his glasses. “Friday, can I get the address?”

As he reads back Friday’s answer and his phone number to the operator, Tony can see blood starting to blossom through the fabric of the scarf. Peter’s asking the woman questions in a quiet, steady voice like he’s trying to keep her distracted, but Tony still catches his quick glance at the spreading blood stain.

The woman’s eyes flick down to it in response, and her face goes another shade paler. “Oh my God.”

“It looks scary, yeah,” Peter agrees, nodding. “But we’re gonna wait with you till the ambulance comes, okay? You won’t be alone. What’s your name?”

“ _Stay on the line. We’re sending an ambulance,_ ” the 911 operator says over Peter’s voice, and Tony feels a sudden, almost overwhelming rush of pride at the kid’s calmness and compassion.

The woman takes a deep inhale. “I - I’m Beth.”

Peter gives her a friendly grin. “I’m Peter.” He jerks his head in Tony’s direction. “That’s Tony.”

“Hi,” Beth breathes, glancing in Tony’s direction, and then she does a double take. “Oh. You’re -”

“Sure am.” On instinct, Tony’s face arranges itself into his usual PR grin, but then he makes a conscious effort to smooth its edges. There’s no need for it here. Not for the first time, he wishes putting on the mask weren’t quite so automatic for him.

Thank God Peter doesn’t seem to have that problem. Tony’s smile softens even more as he watches Peter point to a pin on Beth’s backpack and make some reference he doesn’t get, bringing an unsteady laugh from her. Everything about the kid is genuine, heroic in a deeply caring way that he wears right on his sleeve.

He just hopes Peter can see it in himself. _I’m nothing without this suit_ rattles in his brain to this day. For a moment, he’s struck by the image of a younger Peter huddled underneath a lab table, watching Iron Man fight aliens.

_Kid_ , he thinks, aching with the regret of not saying it sooner. _You’re already better than me._

The three of them sit together as they wait, Tony still on the line with the 911 operator and Peter keeping up a steady stream of gentle reassurance. When Beth starts to feel dizzy, Tony moves to steady her by the shoulders, and Peter’s eyes widen in concern. “Hey, we got you,” he says, as an approaching siren wails in the distance. “They’re almost here.”

The ambulance pulls up with lights flashing red and blue on the half-melted snow on the ground. Tony and Peter step back to let the paramedics take over. They help Beth onto a stretcher, one of them keeping up the pressure on her arm, and as they lift her into the back of the ambulance she calls out a quiet, shaky “Thank you.”

“Feel better!” Peter calls as the doors close.

As the ambulance pulls into the street, he turns to Tony, running a hand through his hair. “Do you think she’ll be okay?”

With another rush of pride, Tony wraps an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “She will. You did fantastic.”

“Sorry about your scarf, I just - it was the first thing I grabbed -”

“I’m glad you did,” Tony says, and turns to look Peter in the eye, still with a hand on his shoulder. “That was some of the best quick thinking I’ve ever seen.”

That makes Peter smile and glance to the side like he’s embarrassed. “It’s just first aid. Anyone would’ve done it.”

“But you’re the one who did.”

“I guess so,” Peter says, still with the sheepish half-smile.

There’s so much Tony wants to say, so much that Peter needs to hear, so much that he’s struggling to find words to describe. “You’re a good kid, you know that?” Tony gives his shoulder a little shake. “You saved the day. No superpowers needed.”

That makes Peter smile for real.

“Come on,” Tony says, clapping Peter on the back. “I’m freezing my ass off. Let’s find a hot chocolate place. And buy you a hat or something. One of those ‘I heart New York’ ones.”

They set off into the cold, but the pride Tony feels is more than enough warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry for taking so long to post this chapter ;_; I have a million assignments and things to do now that the end of the semester is getting closer. but I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you so much for reading, and for the kudos and comments!! :') hope you all are safe and well!
> 
> (also, sorry for any medical inaccuracies - this is based on my limited research and the first aid that I learned years ago and am probably very rusty on, hahaha.)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed it :) I have rough drafts of all six chapters prewritten, but I’ll be editing them as I go. I’ll do my best to have the next one up soon :D


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